PART FIVE: BEAVER'S LODGE
Beaver's Lodge rested in a small clearing surrounded by tall firs. The ground sloped so that the layout of the cabin was situated on three levels, with an L-shaped deck on the second level. He had chosen a remote corner of the Oregon South Coast in the old Curry County to settle, away from civilisation, away from the noise, away from the voices that still plagued him from time to time.
The coast was a unique blend of rugged mountains, tall Douglas firs that appeared to touch the sky if one happened to view them from the Pacific, and sheer sandstone cliffs that dropped vertically one hundred metres to where the ocean waves slammed against the rocks. Further inland, in the distance, snow-capped mountains, like jealous guardians, watched over still Deer Lake, gleaming in the moonlight. Even when he couldn't see the lake, it seemed to him that on clear nights, its reflection, or that of silent birds that skimmed its waters, could be seen against the firmament.
It was perfect.
Like the mountains standing sentry over the silent lake, his home was an idyll he had jealously guarded for years. Not even his dear cousin three times removed had been here. Put off by his instinctive unfriendliness when prompted to visit, Wanda had backed off and when she married Mark Johnson, had kept away from Beaver's Lodge. Any other human around here was an intrusion, an incongruity to his haven that contaminated the peace he had carved for himself. He maintained the lodge and its immediate surroundings himself and only tolerated the crews that arrived every three months to monitor the reserve's biodiversity and preserve the untamed beauty of Curry County.
Occasionally, antelope would saunter almost right up to his cabin and look at him with unblemished curiosity, the sound of his cello attracting them no doubt. He was no Pied Piper but it was a joy to watch shy animals creep from their hiding places and dart about as soon as they had determined that there was no danger to them. If he kept completely still, he could hear the beavers splash about in the nearby stream that meandered through his property.
He had grown accustomed to being alone. Alone, he could spend eons in his own mind while climbing mountains, scaling the steep cliffs, or sailing on the lake. There, in his mind, was another universe where he created, composed, became quiet, raged, became centred, conducted entire conversations. In his mind, he could reconstruct whole worlds, engineer entire scenarios of might-have-beens or future scenes or improvements on what had already happened. It never bothered him that, to the outside world, he might be viewed as an eccentric. He was at peace, but one which he forged from his own crucibles. Those crucibles were kept firmly in place. Once or twice, when the fires burned out of control in his head, he walked up Mount Coniston, an elevation of two thousand metres, and kept walking until the flames subsided. By the time he reached the top, he wondered how he'd made it there, so preoccupied had he been and only because he breathed with great difficulty was he made aware of how thin the air was at that height. He'd rested only for an hour before making the trek down and back to his cabin. It was useful therapy. He was in his element and all he needed was his music and the written word, and his beautiful surroundings of trees, mountains, lake, coastal cliffs, rocky shores.
But nothing could bring him greater centring than sitting on his deck, playing his cello. After a day of hard writing in which he battled with his characters to keep them in line, he sought escape in his music. Sometimes he let them loose on the story and it never ceased to amaze him how they behaved, given new sets of circumstances, new challenges, a different kind of driving force. Then he'd come to the deck and flex his fingers playing scales and arpeggios for a full half an hour before settling into a gentle sonata.
The sun was setting, and in the distance, he could see the ocean, and the deep glow of evening creating its own aurora borealis as it fused with the blue of the skies, slowly, like an ever changing spectrum of colour that he caught in the strings of the cello.
Fauré's Élégie sounded good today, he mused. He sat slightly hunched, his head bent low over the cello. Soft, yet mellow, the notes lifted from the instrument as the strings complied to the command of fingers and bow, breathing music into the quiet air. The notes rose elegantly in gentle crescendo before, one after the other yet connected, they slid effortlessly downwards again. The repeat, an urgent swell of two bars before returning to the opening chords… Second segment of imagined piano carrying the melody and his fingers prompting the strings to provide the accompaniment before taking over the melody. The sounds lifted and fell, became a caress as they hovered before the air absorbed them forever. Closing his eyes, he allowed the music to fill his very depths.
A sudden flash. A ship…
He was back on the Bellerophon. Mel stood before him, nervously wringing her hands.
"Do you have to go, Ethan?"
"Honey, I need to get away. I'm officially off duty for a few days and I thought I could use it to get some work done on my novel. I'm taking a shuttle. I promise I'll be back as soon as possible. Thursday at 1900, that good enough for you?"
"Ethan, you're a Starfleet officer. You're due for promotion to Captain soon. Isn't that enough?"
"Mel, you must understand, please…"
"All I understand is that you would rather write and play your cello than spend time with us."
He had closed his eyes then, thought how their children loved that he tell them stories. Rourke was curious, and asked many questions… Did he spend too little time with them? Mel thought so. But he had been working on something he knew was destined for greatness. He felt it in his bones.
He kissed Mel, allowed his lips to linger on hers, tried to feel the passion that used to rage through his body whenever they touched. He sighed as he pulled away.
"Do you still love me, Ethan?" she asked with her sad eyes.
"Now what kind of question is that to ask?"
Her blue eyes looked troubled. He was troubled. They had fallen out of love, although he still had a great affection for her. He didn't want to lose her. He needed her. Whatever he still felt for her…he wanted to give her as much of it as he could.
"I love you, Mel."
But it seemed she doubted him. He sighed and pulled her in his arms again.
"You…won't leave?" she asked tremulously.
They had argued once. She couldn't understand his music, his writings, and never bothered to try. So he created his own universe that excluded her, excluded Rourke and excluded Piers.
"We have two beautiful little boys, Mel. I will never leave you…"
"I love you…"
Mel had thrown herself against him, had clung convulsively to him. That was the last time he had ever heard Mel speak. He had left, and when he returned…
With sudden rage the mood of the Élégie changed, became disturbed, like a brief storm before it spent itself. His fingers struck the strings ferociously as the bow wrung the forceful tones from them. He threw his head back.
"God, don't make me remember again…" he whispered.
Did God answer? Ethan wondered as he opened his eyes and looked at the clear sky, so unusual for a wintry afternoon. Mel and Rourke and Piers and the Bellerophon moved away, returned to the hidden place in his mind. High against the sun, he saw something, not a bird he surmised quickly, more a small craft, a flitter or shuttle. It hovered against the sky, the sun behind it. The shuttle gleamed silvery, its passage erratic as if the pilot had lost control. Then he saw it dip towards earth, touching down somewhere in the distance, perhaps close to the shore, further to the south.
He started playing again, this time an adagio from a Beethoven sonata. Once again, music filled the air. The melody created a kaleidoscope of aches inside him, yet so beautiful that those aches, at one time unbearable, became carriers of peace. The war was over and music became its victor. The shuttle that earlier hovered against the sun was forgotten as he lost himself in the caressing tones of the adagio.
Suddenly he shivered, as if something crawled up and down his spine, a feeling of unease that persisted, a familiar unease whenever intruders were on the vast estate. He continued playing, yet couldn't shake off the presence of another being somewhere near. Now, however, as he coaxed the strings of the cello, the music took on darker tones, nothing sinister, but unsettling enough for him to cease his concentration. His eyes became riveted to the area where the small craft had vanished. He stopped playing and the last of the notes drifted like echoes, moving further and further away until they were gone.
But Ethan knew he wasn't going to rest until he at least investigated the intrusion. The disquiet increased as he moved to the back of the property to the small landing pad where he kept his own small shuttle. Once inside and seated, he initiated the start-up sequence, searching also for any signs of life.
A minute later, as he lifted off, skimming just over the treetops, he found one life sign. While the intruder must have touched down further south, close to the coast, the life sign indicated the individual was quite a distance away, in fact, near the lake. How far had this person walked in so short a time? He was still wondering about that when he saw something down on the ground, something that wasn't moving, but was definitely human, definitely still alive and, judging by the size and contours, a woman.
He landed the shuttle as closely as possible to where she lay, sandwiched between two boulders. He virtually flew through the barely opened hatch to reach her. She could be dying. His heart racing, Ethan drew in a sharp breath as he turned her over. He recognised her instantly, even though her hair was matted to her face, a bluish tinge to her lips and cheeks. The air was thin and crisp up here, despite the clear skies. He touched her cold cheek. She tried to move her head, aware of his presence.
He drew in a sharp breath.
"Captain Janeway...?"
*****************
There was a warm glow in the room where he had laid her on the double bed and made her as comfortable as he could. Her feet had been bare and full of scratches when he found her and he had cleaned them, using the regenerator from his emergency med-kit. Now, because of the cold outside and the way she shivered uncontrollably, he had put a pair of his own socks on her to keep her feet warm. Since it hadn't rained the last few days, her clothes had been dry, even though the ground had been slightly damp. It would snow soon, he knew. Her hands lay limply on the covers, her hair now dry and smoothed away from her face.
The bluish tinge was gone from her lips and cheeks and a healthy colour had crept into them. Her shivering had also subsided, for which he was glad. Her head was turned to the side, facing him. Her face looked gaunt, the skin pulling over her cheekbones, her lips thin and without rouge. That day at Headquarters when he had seen her the first time, he had been struck by her beauty and now, with the colour back in her cheeks, he thought her beauty so delicate, so fey as if she could break any moment.
And that was what worried him. An hour after he found Kathryn Janeway, she was still in a state of semi-consciousness and showing no signs of waking up. She suffered no concussion. She had not fallen and hit head her somewhere. Apart from the deep scratches to her feet and ankles, there were no other injuries. No internal injuries, no broken limbs, no abrasions on her arms and neck and face, no wounds, no blood that had oozed and congealed on her skin.
On the outside, there was nothing wrong with her. She had simply lain down and closed her eyes.
"Captain...open your eyes...please..."
She must have heard his voice, because he could see there was an attempt, albeit a half-hearted, indifferent one, to comply. As if she wanted to open her eyes but the effort of doing so was simply too much, too exhausting, too painful and private. Where was she? he wondered as he sat on the chair next to her and touched the back of her hand gently. Into what world had she retreated and why? He grimaced. No need to ponder on the "why". Was he the only one who had observed that this woman was near breaking point? Kathryn tried to pull away from his touch and even that seemed too much to do. He wanted to believe that the movement he felt was in answer to his own encouragement, that she was responding to his voice.
This was no mere total exhaustion, he thought. It was not the behaviour of the unconscious, though she seemed unconscious to him. His tricorder picked up neural activity, but none that could shed light on this unwillingness to move or...think. It was more than just lethargy; it was something unutterably deep. She seemed in a world too private, too far away to want to emerge from it.
After what must have been endless minutes, her eyelids fluttered, a slow movement. Eyes stared right through him as her lids lifted.
"Captain Janeway?" he said her name softly.
Her lips moved this time, too. He had to lean in closer to hear her.
"Let me die...please..."
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Captain. You must - "
He stopped in mid-sentence as her eyes fell closed, a deep sigh escaping her as she retreated into her world again. It had become warmer in the room and he was glad. The evenings were cold on the Oregon south coast and all indications were that there would be snow by morning. His home was insulated, with a large centre fireplace in the living room. He had put her in the spare bedroom to the left of the living room while his own bedroom was the only room on the upper level of the cabin. They were on the second level where he had played his cello earlier on the deck.
Ethan thought how lonely Kathryn Janeway had looked standing in a crowd that day he and Mark Johnson went to see her. He hadn't actually spoken with her; Mark had known that all that was needed was for him just to see Kathryn. The rest would follow. He had to concede that he had been heavily intrigued, drawn to this isolated, aloof woman whose friendliness, whose easy conversation with her crew, with family of her crew, admirals, and other dignitaries belied the silent demon that ravaged many in high office: aloneness. It was never what they desired. It just happened for most. He doubted seriously whether Admiral Alynna Nechayev had many friends. Captain Janeway had returned and every thing that connected her to home, to any attachment, had been lost, or taken away, or perhaps, through some mistaken belief that she could handle it, she had told her crew and friends who wanted to remain with that she was fine.
He recognised the profile. He had himself gone through such a process and the only person who had come near to him afterwards without any agenda had been Wanda. Wanda who had met Mark Johnson, fallen in love with him and who wanted his opinion on how to break through Mark's continuing guilt at betraying the very woman who lay now so utterly defenceless before him. Later he had been Wanda's protector of sorts and been the father she had needed through her time of trouble. They were cousins three times removed, were close enough, but never so close that he felt he wanted to invite her to Beaver's Lodge.
Beaver's Lodge was his sanctuary, his new heimat, a place where he felt cocooned.
Now, Captain Kathryn Janeway, lately returned from her long journey in the Delta Quadrant - a hero if ever there was one - had entered his haven without looking like she wanted to get up ever again. He ran his fingers through his hair. It was already dark and he wondered if he should wait 'til morning to alert Starfleet.
Then he remembered the media hounds. No way he could let the world know the lady was in his home, not sleeping, but almost catatonic. And not for the protection of his own privacy, but hers. He could never let them swoop down on Kathryn Janeway while she was in this state. She deserved dignity.
Kathryn moaned and, suddenly alert that she might wake up, he leaned forward, touching her cheek gently.
"What is it, Captain?"
Her eyes remained closed, but her mouth seemed to struggle to formulate a word, much less a sentence.
"Water..." it came from her, a rusty croak that was low and tired and without any strength.
He rushed to the kitchen and returned seconds later with a glass of water. Realising that she couldn't hold the glass, he lifted her against him and held the glass to her parched lips. In what seemed like endless seconds, she took one sip, then a second, with water spilling from the glass. Her head lolled against him and he put the glass down, before pressing her gently back against the pillow. Her eyes never opened again, but she was aware of his presence. He was sure of that. He took a cloth and dabbed at her chin and neck where the water had dripped.
He ruled out Mark and Wanda as persons he could call, and he had no idea where her sister was. According to Mark there was no love lost between the sisters, and he didn’t know whether Phoebe Janeway cared enough about Kathryn.
And so he decided to call Admiral Owen Paris.
***************
It had been the best decision, Ethan decided as he stood on the deck, to contact Admiral Paris, whom he knew from his days as a commissioned officer. Earlier this evening he had called the admiral. It was late but Owen Paris hadn't gone to bed yet. He was still in uniform and appeared agitated, as if he had waited for the communication.
"Commander Bellamy... Tell me you have news I want to hear."
"Then I hope you wish to hear news of Captain Janeway?"
"Yes! We lost contact with Captain Janeway after the hearings, when she left for her home in Indiana. She has refused all communication, understandably. The stress of the last two weeks has been extreme... My wife and I are very concerned..."
"Then, Admiral Paris, I have news of Captain Janeway and, I'm afraid, it's not good news - "
"You know where she is?"
"I thought I'd contact you as the only person whom I could trust in the circumstances, sir. I found her on my property, in a state of collapse. I've been able to treat minor scratches, but I haven't been able to communicate with her. I can't wake her..."
"What? Did she injure herself, a fall, an accident?"
"Nothing like that, sir. No broken bones, no concussion, no internal injuries. She's just...gone, I guess."
Then he heard a voice in the background, that of Mrs Paris, who was a doctor. He sighed with relief. He had come to the right place indeed. Their concern was genuine. Kathryn Janeway wasn't so alone after all. Not perfect, but at least two persons who cared whether she lived or died... Owen turned in the direction of his wife and a second later, her kindly face appeared on the screen.
"Commander Bellamy...? I treated a Commander Bellamy just over ten years ago..."
"Then you have the right person, Doctor. Though I must admit, I don't remember much of my stay in hospital."
Elizabeth Paris nodded and he was glad she dropped the subject. The past was the past. No need to revisit. Anyway, Kathryn Janeway was the patient who needed her help.
"Well, I understand Kathryn is with you. If you give us your coordinates, we'll be there as soon as possible."
He complied, punching in the coordinates. Owen Paris gave a soft hiss.
"That's not too far away. We'll be there in an hour."
"Thank you, sir, doctor."
Now, standing on his deck, Ethan remembered feeling immense relief that they had come and that Doctor Paris had immediately begun to work on treating Kathryn Janeway. From the way that Admiral Paris spoke in Kathryn Janeway's defence, he knew that he had made the right decision. Kathryn Janeway had reached breaking point. The cumulative pressure of years of command when there was no one above her to absorb some of that pressure, the constant application of duty and command which often led senior officers to put crew and duty before all else, the hardships, the betrayals, the losses, her mother's death - everything impacting all at once... Kathryn Janeway was a super woman, a super captain, but not super human.
Ethan heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Admiral Paris approaching. It was dead of night and the snow he expected had not fallen, although it was bitingly cold and he was rubbing his hands together.
"It was a good thing you called us, Commander Bellamy."
"Admiral, I'm no longer in Starfleet - "
"Well, then, forgive me, you're still one of the finest officers we've ever had."
"Thank you. Captain Janeway...?"
"My wife is still with her. We'll hear from her in a moment. She's almost finished. But Commander, I have a suggestion to make, since I fear Captain Janeway is nowhere near ready to take up her duties at Headquarters."
He turned cold inside. He sensed what Owen Paris was going to suggest. They were in his space and it unsettled him. He had to get used to it, that was all. But right now, he knew he came across as cold.
"Fire away, Admiral Paris."
"You're very secluded up here in the mountains, with few people making their way here. I'd like to suggest Captain Janeway remain here until she has recovered sufficiently - "
"Recovered sufficiently? What is wrong with her?" he asked, as if he didn't already have an idea.
"I see Elizabeth has completed her examination..." Admiral Paris said softly, moving inside to the living area, quite close to the big centre fireplace where it was much warmer. Doctor Paris waited for them to join her.
His heart sank when he saw the grave expression on Doctor Paris's face. He hadn't responded to her husband's suggestion yet and here she was, looking to support him in that idea.
"What is wrong with Captain Janeway, Doctor Paris?" he asked.
"Captain Janeway has suffered a complete nervous collapse, Commander Bellamy, caused by extreme and prolonged stress, unresolved grief, bereavement, loss of loved ones, loss. She's completely debilitated, to the point she wants to die…"
He remembered Kathryn telling him to let her die. Had she lost so much of the will to fight what was happening to her?
"It's out of my field of expertise," Doctor Paris continued, "but I can tell you that the best course of treatment is for her to unwind slowly and peacefully, without too many intrusions, in quiet surroundings. She is aware of what is happening to her and knowing her, she will make attempts to assist in her own recovery. Right now, she is just plain incapable of doing so because her exhaustion is total. I'd like to suggest she remain here, in your care - "
"I'm not equipped to - "
"Commander," Admiral Paris cut in, "I'm aware of your history. While all facts remain confidential, I know you are exactly the right person to help Captain Janeway through her plight. Besides, there's no one else to help her. Her sister has absconded, it seems, and any distant relations are too distant to care. Here, she will heal. It's a form of treatment, therapy, if you will."
"Therapy... She's not sick, for heaven's sake."
"I know, Commander," Elizabeth said. "But she needs someone like you to help her. You're ideally suited and situated; you may not think so now, but I can assure you Kathryn is in good hands."
"Starfleet is still not very high on your appreciation list," Admiral Paris added, a little ruefully, "but we commit ourselves to help as much as we can. This matter will also be held in the strictest confidence and privacy. No one but the three of us know she is here.." Admiral Paris looked at his wife with warm eyes. "Elizabeth?"
"I brought along a full med-kit. I'll leave instructions for her medication, should she become too agitated. She hasn't opened her eyes yet, but she knows the admiral and I are here with her." Doctor Paris frowned, then smiled at him. "I don't think she knows you..."
"I haven't said I'll look after her..." He knew he sounded lame. He was losing the battle with Starfleet's greatest admiral and his wife, a fine doctor at Starfleet Medical.
"Please..." said Elizabeth Paris.
"Admiral, Doctor Paris..." he began, drawing a deep breath before continuing. "I attended for one day during the court-martial. I was there also during the debriefings. I couldn't help but notice that Captain Janeway had no family to come back to. I don't think her sister has welcomed her and I believe her mother died just before Voyager's return. I was struck by that, Admiral. There was no one for her. And then you spoke in her defence. It means a lot, for her, and in my eyes, makes you the father and mother of this woman. I'll help as much as I can until she has recovered. I'm not sure what I've let myself into, but Captain Janeway will have her privacy and the time, the peace, the setting to heal."
"Thank you, Commander. Captain Janeway has always been very dear to us. Anything you need, just let us know, will you?"
"She needs clothing, though that can be replicated. But other things...?"
"Her house in Indiana will be open for you. Anything you think she might need will be there..."
When they heard a loud moan from the bedroom, all three rushed in to see what was happening.
"Kathryn..."
Her eyes were open this time, though Ethan could see that it must have taken great effort to do so. Probably the injection Doctor Paris had administered earlier. She was looking at Admiral Paris, then her eyes moved to Doctor Paris. When finally her eyes connected with his, there was a deadly pause, a long silence in which Kathryn Janeway just looked at him.
"I...saw...you..."
He gave a tight smile.
"Captain Janeway, I am Ethan Bellamy."
*******************
On their way back to their home in Southern California, Admiral Paris looked at his wife. His face was sombre.
"What haven't you been telling me, Elizabeth?" he asked.
"There is nothing physically wrong with her. But it's her state of mind. She spoke once of wanting to die, Owen. There is so much despair, so much loss of hope, it has changed her features almost."
"Commander Bellamy will care for her."
"I'm worried that she may never want to rise from that bed. Everything about her system seemed to have ceased to function, even her thinking. I think she's slid into an abyss."
"Elizabeth, I know Kathryn. A part of her acknowledges what is happening to her and there is the hope that she will rally. How long it takes will depend on her alone. Don't worry so."
"I can't help it, Owen. I have never seen her like that. Never. She looks so frail and weak."
"Aye…" he sighed. He too, had never seen Kathryn like that. The court-martial had only served to underline her guilt more than what it sought for the truth, for answers.
"After the Bellerophon was destroyed, Ethan's hair turned white…" Elizabeth said, looking surreptitiously at her husband.
"Now where did that come from?"
"Just that he looks very handsome indeed, with his shock of white hair, Mr Paris. Kathryn may be in a different kind of danger."
"Nonsense. She is in love with Chakotay. More's the pity. Fool of a man went and married someone from right under Kathryn's nose. She's lost everything."
"I hate Chakotay."
"Women!"
****************************************
END PART FIVE